


Twelve Days

by princess_schez



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 18:32:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princess_schez/pseuds/princess_schez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone’s been reenacting a beloved holiday song, but with a very dark twist.</p>
<p>Written by me and mlebayre. Set during S2.</p>
<p>Banner by me.</p>
<p>  <a href="http://s429.photobucket.com/user/PrincessSchez/media/Supernatural/twelvedays_zps780e3613.png.html"></a><br/><img/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There was a nip in the air as dark clouds hung low overhead, a promise that soon the world would turn bleak and white and dead. Winter was fast approaching, as was the first snowfall, which looked like it would happen at any time. Sam tugged his jacket closer to him as they stepped out of the warmth of the Impala, broken twigs crunching under his feet.

Dean blew into his hands, silently grumbling to himself as the cold cut through him. Leave it to Ellen to send them out on a salt and burn ghost case in the middle of the worst time of year in Washington state.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said, a shovel resting over his shoulder as they made a path through the woods, a sprinkling of white now dusting their hair. Sam nodded. The sooner this was done, the sooner they could get back to some place warm and have a few beers.

They didn’t know how far they would have to go to find the old grave, just that they would know it when they saw it. Snowflakes began sticking to the trees and the ground as they moved further into the woods, and Sam kept his eyes peeled for any kind of a grave marker.

The snow began to come down harder as their boots made squelching noises with each step. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Dean stop. 

Sam really had to wondering what deranged person had thought it fine to disembowel another human, string them up in a pear tree, leaving a partridge to peck at the oozing remains. It took someone with a very sick and warped sense of humor to do this, yet it didn’t surprise either of them, nor did it faze them in the slightest. They’d seen far worse in this line of work.

“You think the ghost is tied into _this_?” Sam asked.

“Possibly. Ellen said there were reports of an old, long dead priest causing havoc in the local town.”

“Yeah, but how does it tie in with the body?”

“Don’t know, but we’ll torch them both, cover our bases.”

Getting down to business, Sam pulled out his EMF detector and quickly began to scan over the crime scene as Dean readied his Colt 1911 should anything attack.

The EMF gave a series of steady hums as Sam drew closer to the gruesome remains. 

“There’s definitely EMF activity here,” Sam commented, turning the detector off.

“Yeah, and I found the grave, too.”

Dean kicked some old, dried brush aside, unveiling a wooden spike that had fallen over in the ground. Picking it up, the words ‘Gregory 1889’ was scraped into it.

“Well, whoever this is, let’s just torch the remains and get some place warm.”

Dropping the shovel in, the ground gave in surprisingly easy. 

“This has been dug up recently, Sammy,” Dean said, shoveling away the dirt.

Kneeling down, Sam got a closer look. The dirt had been moved, and judging by the looks of it, whoever had dug it up hadn’t done a good job of filling it back up as it took Dean only a few good shovel-fulls to clear away the dirt.

A piece of clapboard sat haphazardly on a wooden box, a sign that someone, obviously very recently, had dug the body up. Sliding the lid off, the long deceased skeleton wearing a priest’s robe looked back at them. 

“Kinda odd for a priest to be buried out here and not in a church or graveyard,” Sam said.

“Let’s just salt and burn it and be done with it.”

Dean pulled out a book of matches as Sam sprinkled salt and lighter fluid over the priest’s body.

The makeshift coffin was soon ablaze, as the Winchesters set to work igniting the other body.

Quick, clean, easy in, easy out. It was Dean’s favorite way to work a job, and he was excited that this was now over with, but something had been nagging at Sam about it, something he decided not to share with Dean, figuring it was just his overly sensitive nature getting the best of him.

“I think I saw a motel some miles back on the Interstate,” Dean said. “We should stay a day or two and make sure everything has been dealt with.”

Sam agreed.

Inside the Impala, Dean turned on the radio, only to hear Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” playing over the speakers.

“Oh Hell no, no Christmas songs,” he said, turning the dial, hoping to find a good rock song. 

“What’s wrong with Christmas songs?” Sam asked.

Dean looked at his brother, as though he had just committed some cardinal sin. 

“What’s wrong with them? How about they’re happy and cheerful, and nobody during the holidays are that freaking happy or cheerful, and if they are, you usually want to punch them in the mouth.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at his brother. “Jeez, tell me how you really feel about them.”

Dean just smiled as the sounds of Lynyrd Skynyrd now played over the speakers.

He worried about his brother, Sam did. Dean had been moodier and angrier since their Dad died, and he wondered just how much longer it was going to be like this.


	2. Chapter 2

_“On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me two turtle doves…”_  
\--

“What the Hell? I repeat what the freaking Hell?”

“It’s…um…oh crap I don’t know Dean,” Sam said.

“Who does this?” Dean kept going like Sam hadn’t even spoken. Then he turned at looked at Sam as if he was supposed to know, even though he didn’t. 

A second body, but this one wasn’t stashed away in a cemetery outside of town. Oh no, this one was in the parking lot of a diner just down from the motel, but still on the outskirts of town.

It was an apparent suicide, but Sam thought otherwise and the look on Dean’s face told him his brother thought the same.

The car was still running as the fireman opened the door, reached in and shut off the ignition. The man inside was clearly dead, and had been for a while. He was behind the wheel of a nice car, a few years old, Sam thought it ironic it was the newer version of their car. This Impala was silver and two or three years old.

Until the ignition was cut off Christmas music had been blaring from the radio. Dean nudged Sam’s elbow, an evil smirk forming on his face. He leaned in close, so only Sam could hear him. “See, Christmas carols kill. Poor guy couldn’t stand it anymore.”

“I think maybe one Christmas carol kills. Did you notice what was stuck in the exhaust and hanging from the rear view mirror?”

“Birds.” Dean faked a shiver. “Bad omens.”

“Doves, two of them.” Sam had that niggling feeling again, but stronger this time.

“This is starting to sound familiar,” Dean said. 

“Uh huh.” Sam stopped when the voices of people near the hushed. They were taking the man’s body from the car. 

“I don’t understand it, he seemed fine at work,” one woman said. “Don’t people usually have signs?”

No one had any ready answer for her.

Dean stepped back, a hand on Sam’s arm urged him back as well. “We burned the bones. So, there has to be something else, somewhere else. This is connected, I’m sure of it.”

“Yeah, now to find out how,” Sam said and sighed as they walked back to their motel.

“I think step one is to find out why a priest wasn’t buried on church grounds.” Dean shut the door after Sam was inside. “And then what these killings have to do with said priest.”

“Maybe it’s not the priest, but the other victim?” Sam suggested.

“That doesn’t even make sense, but we should check it out. Nothing we do ever really makes sense.”

Sam flipped open his laptop. “Well, first things first. What gets a priest not buried on church ground.”

“I’m going to nose around town while you do that. See what I can dig up,” Dean snickered at his own joke, making Sam roll his eyes. “I’ll check the churches. That robe looked Catholic to you?”

Sam nodded, but didn’t say anything, he was concentrating on his computer.

“What you want for dinner? I’ll bring something back.”

“Pizza,” Sam said without looking up.

-0-

Before heading to the local church, Dean decided to make his first stop the local watering hole, a little dive of a place they saw on the drive into town.

If there was a better place to get info about weird goings-on in town, it was the bar. And by the looks of it, it was happening.

“Guess there isn’t much to do in a place like this,” Dean commented to himself.

He walked in, taking a quick look around. It looked like the type of place that hadn’t seen an update in decades, what with the 1970’s wood paneling covering the walls and worn carpeting on the floor. The pretty female bartender looked up and smiled at him. Dean smiled back. This could be a lot easier than he thought. He just needed the right opening to the conversation.

“Hey good lookin’, what can I get you?” she asked.

“A beer and maybe your phone number, too.”

The woman laughed. “I don’t give my number out to just anyone. But I can get you a beer.”

She set a bottle in front of him, and Dean just so happened to notice the name tag on her chest. “Chrissy, is it?”

“Sure is! Don’t like my formal name too much, so I go by that,” she replied.

Dean nodded. “It suits you.”

Chrissy smiled. “So, haven’t seen you around these parts before? New to town?”

“You could say that. My brother and I are staying here while we visit our mom in the next town. Apparently being the holidays, all the motels are booked, and she’s only got a little condo, so it’s the boonies for her kids.”

“Well that bites, but at least you’ll see her. My mom lives in Las Vegas, so I rarely get to see her.”

A moment passed, before she asked, “You’d know, I’d ask you how you like ‘the boonies’ so far, but I’m sure you heard about what happened this morning.”

Dean took a swig of his beer. “Hear what?”

“About the suicide outside the diner this morning.”

Bingo.

“Oh, yeah, I saw that. We’re staying in the motel not far from it….”

-0-

Sam surfed the web, trying to find any info about a priest named Gregory who lived in the 1800’s in the area. But without a first name, or even another name to go with it, was proving difficult.

Feeling desperate, he hoped Dean was making better progress than he was… until he tried one last search, one last website. It was a long shot, but it was better than telling Dean he found nothing.

Finally, he hit pay dirt. On a website detailing obscure history of the state, there was a small blurb about a man, a priest, who lived in the area in the mid 1800’s. And the more Sam read, the more he began to understand….

Reaching for his cell phone, he dialed Dean’s number, hoping to tell him what he found.

-0-

Dean was just about to enter the church – Our Lady of the Angels – when he felt his cell phone go off. It was Sam.

“Yeah?”

He listened for a moment.

“You’re kidding?”

Again he listened.

“Well, I’m on my way into the church now, so I can poke around a bit.”

He closed his phone and reached out a hand to the church door, before stopping for a moment. Having just left the bar to go to the church seemed like strange irony in Dean’s mind, but it was all good. It was a good thing he didn’t believe in the God or angels spiel one iota, otherwise, he’d probably have been concerned that someone like himself would’ve been struck by lightning for entering.

It was your typical church. There were stained glass windows, heavy, dark drapes and wooden pews with a soft polished sheen. Dean couldn’t help glancing up, just in case the lightning bolt was coming down for him.

He walked through the main part of the church, casually looking over the alter when he reached it. There was a door behind it, that lead to the business part of the church. There were a few offices, with computers, a choir room and what looked to be the nursery. 

“Hello,” Dean called out. Everything was unlocked, but no one seemed to be home. He crossed one of the offices and moved some cheerful yellow curtains with butterflies and flowers on them to the side. 

There was a yard then a house that looked like it had been built around the same time as the church. There was someone moving about at the side of the house, doing what looked like yard work. Dean saw the priest’s collar, even though he wore jeans.

Dean let the curtains drop back into place and left the office. He went to a heavy wooden doorway at the end of the hall and gave the handle a jiggle.

Locked. That didn’t stop Dean, he took a quick look around before pulling out lock picks, leaning down and made short work his obstacle. There was a stairway leading down. The locks were stowed away and replaced by a flashlight. The weight of his handgun was snug at his back.

He walked slowly down the stairs. The fact that this door had been locked told Dean a few things. The valuables were down here, religious artifacts all churches no matter the religion seemed to always have. That was normally where the library was, as well as any mausoleum and access to the church cemetery. 

It took a few minutes but he finally found the documents and a book Sam had told him about. Just as his phone was signaling an incoming call, Dean heard the steady thump, clunk of shoes on the floor above.

Dean stuffed it all into his jacket and went to the far end of the basement. There were crypts and a bared door. He unlocked the door and slipped out into the late afternoon sun, making sure to leave it unlocked. If he and Sam needed in later, this would be far easier than going through the church and risking have to answer questions.

“I found it, I think,” Dean said into the phone, keeping his voice low. “Whatcha want on your pizza?”

-0-

Sam smiled when Dean chuckled as he walked through the door and Sam took the book, not the pizza. Dean set it all on the table and set a paper plate with pizza on it in front of Sam, ordering, “Eat.”

Sitting on the other side of the table, Sam rifled through the book with one hand and juggled a piece of pizza in the other. “This is good.” 

They spent a few minutes eating while Sam read, and shuffled some of the papers around.

“Father Gregory wasn’t his name. His real name was Frank Caine. He had five brothers and six sisters, he was somewhere in the middle. Anyway, three of his sisters became nuns, two married and had families.”

“What about sister number six?” Dean asked.

“I’m getting to her. Another of Frank’s brothers also went to seminary and became a priest. Two settled down and raised families here in town. Of the other two one became a pianist, he played all over the world. His sister and other brother toured with him, helped manage his performances. The three of them also pulled off some of the biggest robberies of the day and it’s even rumored they helped fund the Confederate Army.”

“Interesting family. But that doesn’t explain Father Gregory being toss on his ass out of the Church.”

“No,” Sam agreed. “But, one Christmas Eve, when their entire family was together Father Gregory was called away during dinner, to visit a dying parishioner. While he was gone someone with a grudge against the thieves killed the entire family.”

“So the good Father didn’t turn the other cheek, I’m guessing?” Dean asked.

“Yep. Frank hunted the killers down and used some very creative methods to avenge his family. Needless to say they weren’t Church approved. There is a legend that he had help in the form of an athame he’d gotten from a witch.”

“Yeah, that always goes over well with the Church,” Dean said. He sighed and split the last piece of pizza. “Find the athame.” They both turned to the TV when there was breaking news. “Son of a bitch, someone has a bird fetish.”


	3. Chapter 3

_“On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me three French hens…”_  
\--

 

The man kept running, hoping to outrun his attacker. He couldn’t believe his neighbor just… _snapped_ like that. He was always so nice.

There was a little farm house just up ahead, maybe he could hide out there until Mr. Holdson passed…. And regained what sanity he had.

This was just _crazy_.

Heart pounding, lungs burning, he ran straight ahead toward the building, hoping he could get safely inside, away from the crazed person and keep warm from the freezing cold.

Knocking on the door, and twisting the handle, proved futile. Pounding, he pleaded with whoever lived there. “Please, someone let me in!”

Nothing.

Taking his chances, he went round toward the back, hoping he could find shelter. It wouldn’t be long until the sunrise.

A henhouse stood in the back, looking promising and just large enough for him to hide from his attacker. Slipping inside, he took a deep breath and hoped things would straighten themselves out soon….

But it would be the last breath he ever took….

-0-

Dean turned the TV up as the anchorman delved further into the bizarre case, involving another dead body, this one having been choked to death with hen feathers.

“Viewers, it would seem more reports are just starting to come in from Danbury farms. Let’s head over to Jan who is at the farm now. Jan, do you have any more info regarding this bizarre murder?”

The scene changed to a woman standing near a farm house, microphone in hand. She smiled blithely at the camera, despite the grim news she had to give. “Sure thing, Steve. Coroner couldn’t give many details at this time, but he did say the victim’s throat was stuffed full with feathers from a couple of escaped hens. At the current time, the cause of death appears to be asphyxia.”

The camera scanned away the reporter, taking in area where three hens – sans a few of their feathers – were frantically fluttering by. The camera cut back to the woman who was preparing to interview an older man, but Dean didn’t listen to the rest of it, having turned the TV off to face Sam.

“Choked to death with feathers? It’ll be a while before I touch chicken again.”

Sam said nothing. Instead, he sat there staring at the blank TV, his head processing the info.

“Uh, Sammy? You okay?”

Sam looked up. “Huh? Oh, yeah. I was thinking about something.”

“Care to share with the class?”

“I think I know why burning the body didn’t work. Remember how the dirt looked like it had been recently dug up? Well, what if Father Gregory was buried with the athame? And whoever dug him up, took the athame, and since his spirit was attached to it, he’s back and roaming around… committing more murder.”

Dean nodded. “Makes sense. But how are we going to find out who did it? It’s not like we can just go up and ask someone if they’ve dug up any old graves recently and stole a magical athame.”

“I read something interesting on the computer before you came. There’s an old, urban legend floating around town, mostly among the older townsfolk about Father Gregory. Think about it, Dean. What if someone heard about it and wanted to disprove or prove it? Who do you think would be brave enough – in this case – stupid enough, to go digging around?”

Dean thought about it for a moment. “Teenagers. Definitely teenagers. So little Johnny or Suzie dug open a grave and stole an athame. Great.”

“So where do we begin?” Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. “Uh, my guess would be to poke around a bit and see who’s the local goth kid in town.”

“Don’tcha think their parents would’ve seen them carrying around an athame or something?”

“Not unless they kept it in their locker. It’s a long shot, but what other choice do we have at the moment?”

-0-

The next day the news had a field day with the recent murder. Sam and Dean found the little town buzzing everywhere they went. By the looks of things, every news station in the state was corralled into the town.

“Damn, news sure traveled fast,” Dean said as they drove though the main street in town.

“This is just going to make our investigation a whole lot harder,” Sam said.

“Tell me about it.”

Dean flipped the radio on again as the Twelve Days of Christmas began playing.

_“12 Lords a leaping!”  
“11 Pipers piping!”_

“The holidays won’t be over soon enough, will it?” Dean sighed as he changed the channel. Sam knew better than to say anything.

They drove a little further to the outskirts of town, following the directions Sam printed out taking them to the local little high school. It was dinky, and the Winchester’s would know. They had been in some small schools in their day, but this one had to top them.

Pulling the Impala into the parking lot, they got out and, checking to make sure no one was around, Dean pulled out a lock-pick set and began working on the front entrance. It was a testament to the idyllic small town that there were no security cameras or guards roaming the building.

After a moment, Dean had the front door open and he and Sam strolled in. The silence was broken as they walked through the halls, locating the lockers down at the end of the hall.

There were at least forty lockers they needed to go through, so this was going to take some time. 

“Quicker way to go through ‘em, Sammy….” Dean began, almost reading his brother’s mind as he held up his EMF detector. “If the athame is the key to these murders, then it should be giving off some big ass EMF readings.”

Sam nodded, pulling out his own EMF detector. Each brother took a side, working their way through the lockers, but came up with nothing when they met in the middle. Not one little blip or disturbance.

“Well hell, that was a bust,” Dean said with resentment in his voice as they left the empty school.

“Well, maybe should check around the school instead.”

“Beats just driving back into town and dealing with the teeming hoards of the media.”

The winter chill bit at their faces, but neither one complained, following a trail toward what was the school’s track and field, EMF readers out once more. It was Dean who noticed something odd in the distance next to the edge of the track.

“Do you see that?”

Sam squinted. There was something large and black in the distance, but whatever it was wasn’t moving. Even from this distance, they could tell it was almost human-sized.

“Not again,” Dean mumbled. The feeling of dread filled them as they hurried over to the spot, finding another gruesome remain.

“You’re right; someone does have a bird fetish,” Sam sighed.


	4. Chapter 4

_“On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me four calling birds…”_  
\---

Sam couldn’t tell if the victim was male or female, just that they had tar dumped on them and had black feathers stuck to them. Lying next to them were the remains of four black birds.

“I can think of better ways to go,” Dean commented.

“We all can, and I’m pretty sure this person did too.”

“What is with this freak and birds?”

Sam looked thoughtful for a moment. If his suspicions were right, then things weren’t looking good for the next victim.

“Dean, I think I know what’s going on.”

Dean raised an eyebrow.

Sam continued. “The first person we found was hanging in a pear tree with a partridge. The second involved two doves. Third, three hens at Holdson farms. Four,” he indicated the four birds next to him and the tarred and feathered victim.

“So you think –”

“I think Father Gregory is reenacting the Twelve Days of Christmas, but instead of gifts, he’s killing people instead. And if we don’t stop this, the next person is gonna suffer death by five golden rings.”

“And again, Christmas carols kill.”

-0-

They drove back into town undetected. By then, most of the media had left, but a few remained. 

“You know what is bugging me about the school? How would a kid hide a dagger very well and stay in school. Zero tolerance and all that. Maybe it’s at home or hidden somewhere else,” Dean said as he drove. 

“We have to find said kid first,” Sam reminded him.

Two girls sitting to the side on a bench, watching things caught Sam’s attention. He nudged Dean’s shoulder and nodded out the front window of the Impala. 

“I see them. I’ve seen them a few times but it’s a small town and I’ve recognized a few people,” Dean said. “Cheerful outfits.”

Sam had to agree. They weren’t exactly what he’d call goth, and he and Dean had come to realize those kids weren’t really the ones who dabbled in things they had to stop. For those kids it was more self-expression.

Of the two girls, even from this distance, one of them reeked depressed and troubled.

They left the car, walking slowly, stopping near others talking for a few minutes before moving on. All the while they were working their way into position to get close enough to the two girls to hear their conversation.

One girl was talking, the venom in her voice made Sam cringe. A side glance at Dean was all he needed to see the horror on his brother’s face. Sam stopped when he felt Dean’s hand lightly slide down his forearm until he closed his fingers around Sam’s wrist.

“It’s their fault my Dad is dead. All my Mom does is take pills and drink.” The was maybe sixteen.

“Do you want to stay at my house tonight? My folks said you could, or even if you want to live with us.”

“No. Not tonight. If the bitch chokes on her own vomit I want to be around,” the first girl said. “They’ll all pay.”

Sam felt a chill when she grabbed a chain around her neck, pulling it out of her shirt and running the object on the chain back and forth a few times.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean grumbled. “I have to admit I didn’t see that one coming.”

What the girl had around her neck was the athme. It was small, the size of a cross, but this was no cross. It was a decorative gold and silver amulet in the shape of a ceremonial dagger. She couldn’t stab a mouse to death with it, and Sam doubted it even had any sharp edges or points.

“That’s how she got it into school. Anywhere,” Sam said. 

“Yeah, we’ve been looking for a real sized blade,” Dean said.

“It’s easy to forget an athme can be any size, even jewelry, as long as it’s blessed and the owner believes in its power.”

“The last person who needs something like that is a teen age girl with a grudge,” Dean pointed out.

“So, how do we get it from her without getting our asses tossed in jail?”

Dean opened his mouth and shut it again, shaking his head. “Let’s figure out who she is.”

Once back at their motel, Sam started going through what he found online about the local high school. He hadn’t spent more than a few minutes when Dean bolted off the other bed and turned up the TV.

“Cathy Willard was found dead in her home by her daughter, Devon, earlier tonight. It is believed she died of apparent overdose. She was the widow of recently deceased Jackson Willard, the stock broker under investigation for insider trading and fraud,” the woman reporting the news said.

“Sammy?”

“On it.” It didn’t take Sam long to find all sorts of articles and photos. “It’s the same girl. Here’s a picture of her with her parents when the father was arrested.”

“Sam, look.”

Obediently Sam looked over the laptop screen at the TV. There were shots of the house and a woman being removed on a stretcher. Beyond that was the house, and front steps. Lying on the steps were five rings strung together, Sam was willing to bet they were gold.

“Willard managed the money for a lot of people in this town, who made a bundle on stock investments. Then they were ruined when he was caught. There were rumors his wife was having affairs, one with a judge and she turned him in,” Sam said.

“We have to find him.” Dean was up and moving, checking the load on his handgun and grabbing his jacket. “You keep digging.”

“Call me every fifteen,” Sam called after Dean as he left. “Don’t die.”


	5. Chapter 5

_"On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me six geese a laying…"_  
\---

Dean didn’t have a problem finding the judge Cathy Willard was having an affair with. All he to do was go to the closest bar, drop a few bucks on some beer, get the television station set to news and start talking about Cathy Willard’s death.

When he went to the home of the judge he found something interesting. The judge was a woman.

He pulled out his phone, it was time for check in with his brother. “Hey, Sammy, did you find a name for the judge?”

“AJ, all I found was initials. None of the articles had proof. The affair, all of them, were unsubstantiated rumors. There is one judge with the first name Arleen and one with the last name Johnson,” Sam said. Dean could hear him tapping on the keyboard.

“I was Arleen. At least that was what the local gossips say and she’s the higher ranking judge. I’m at her house now. I found photos of her and Cathy.”

“Yeah, that’ll piss off a priest without having his ghost controlled by a vengeful teen age girl. Any sign of Arleen?”

“No. And I don’t like this. There is no one here, and the house was unlocked. I didn’t even get to use my lock picks.” Dean held his phone is one hand, his handgun out and at the ready in the other. “I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

He silently moved down a hall and poked a door open. First a bathroom, large, elegant with a tub big enough for two people, next was a bedroom that looked like it was for guests. Next down the hall was another bedroom converted into a library. One wall was lined floor to ceiling with shelves of books. A wide screen TV took up another wall and across from that was a computer.

Dean left everything in the room alone and headed across the hall to what was clearly the master bedroom. It was bigger than the two rooms across the hall together. It looked undisturbed, the massive bed neatly made. There were two doors other than the entrance to the bedroom. 

Carefully opening one door revealed a walk in closet stuffed with clothes, shoes and various accessories. Dean rolled his eyes and backed out. Why anyone would need enough shoes, purses and matching belts they could go two years without using the same ones twice was beyond him.

As he approached the next door he heard water trickling. What he assumed was a leaky faucet turned out to be an overflowing tub. As with the one down the hall it was deep and big enough for two people.

Or one person in blood stained water.

“Shit,” Dean muttered. “I bet you’re Arleen.” He called Sam. “What’s the next line in the song?” He gave one of the six mobiles hanging over the dead woman a tap.

“Geese. Six geese a laying.”

“Hang on.” Dean stepped back and snapped a picture and sent it to Sam. “This qualify?”

For a minute there was silence then Sam’s voice returned. “Euww.”

“Guess that means yes. Give me a ten minute head start then call the cops.” Dean ended the call and left the bathroom, heading out of the house.

Cathy’s illicit lover Arleen was in the tub of water. Her arms sliced open, she’d bled out. Above her was a series of mobiles in the shape of a flock of geese. Hanging from the geese were egg shaped pieces of shiny metal.

-0-

Dean was a safe distance away when he heard the sounds of police sirens draw near Arleen’s house. He sighed, not even bothering to turn the radio on. They needed to find a way to get that athame from Depressed Girl and fast and stop this madness before they got further into the twelve in Twelve Days of Christmas.

“Dean, I got to show you something,” Sam said, as his brother entered the motel.

“What?” Whatever it was didn’t sound good and Dean could feel the pit in his stomach.

Sam was pointing to something on his laptop. Dean, looking over his brother’s shoulder, couldn’t help but laugh.

“An ice skating show? Really? You want to go to see that, Sammy?”

“Look at what they’re performing: Swan Lake. The seventh day of Christmas is seven swans a swimming. And look at where it’s being held.”

“Aw crap.” Dean read the info for the ice show. It was being performed on an outdoor frozen lake the next day at sundown. Somehow, that didn’t seem like the smartest of ideas, and if this was where the next murder was going down, it was worth checking out. They hadn’t gotten lucky enough to get a heads up before, and now they might be able to stop it.

Dean’s phone began ringing, taking his attention away from the screen.

“It’s Ellen,” he said. “Hello?”

He listened for a moment. “Yeah, the case is taking a bit longer than expected.”

Stopping again, Dean waited, and then explained the details of the case to her: from the killer spirit of Father Gregory reenacting the Twelve Days of Christmas, to the athame on the neck of a seriously troubled girl, and the gruesome deaths suffered from those in the crossfire. 

“No, no, we actually have a lead this time. If it pans out, we should hopefully be able to put this case to rest.”

Closing the phone, he looked at Sam. “Ellen said that the only surefire way to destroy the athame is to burn it in a holy fire.”

“Holy fire?”

“Yeah, like we bless the fire with a sprinkling of holy water and proceed to torch to that little pain-in-the-ass piece of jewelry.”

Sam nodded. “Kinda makes sense. But we need to get it from that girl.”

“Tomorrow we strike.”


	6. Chapter 6

_“On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me, seven swans a swimming...”_  
\---

Dusk came, and Sam and Dean found themselves facing a large frozen lake, sitting in a makeshift stadium bench that had been set up for the event. They were too cold to even care about the occasional odd glance they got as they scanned the crowd.

“Look,” Dean said, nodding to his right. Down a few rows from them was Depressed Girl and her friend. From what they could see, she was playing with the tiny athame around her neck.

“How do you propose we get that from her?” Sam asked.

Dean sighed. “No idea.”

By then, the show was beginning and seven skaters made their way onto the ice, each one dressed in a frilly white skater’s dress reminiscent of a swan, the familiar music playing over the loudspeakers. Dean looked at his watch, wondering how long the torture was going to last.

But to his horror, one of the skaters stopped, and frantically pointed to something in the ice. Dean shot a glance at Sam, as the brothers scooted further in their seats to try and see what was happening. The music stopped, yet before anyone could react, the ice split into two, a large chasm of freezing water below.

Screams from the stands drowned out the screams from the skaters as one by one, they rushed to make it off the ice, but two weren’t so lucky. Dean gave Sam a silent non-verbal order: He and hoards of others rushed from their seats to aid the skaters holding onto the ice floes, he needed Sam to keep watch on Depressed Girl.

They divided into groups and formed a human chain. Dean ended up on the end of one and was barely able to grab the girl turning blue and dangling off the end of a mini iceberg. She was a shivering mess when he got his arms around her and hauled her out of the frigid water.

He swiveled around and narrowly avoided going into the water himself before handing her over to others waiting with blankets. Slithering back from the edge, Dean stood up and accepted a blanket. Looking around the stands for Sam and Depressed Killer Girl as he wiped his face, Dean started when her friend ran up to him.


	7. Chapter 7

_"On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me, eight maids a milking…"_  
\---

“Are you Dean?”

“Yu-yeah,” Dean stammered, a cold rush going through him and only half of it was from the chill in the air.

“My friend, she’s not right.”

“No kidding,” Dean said, searching for Sam.

“Your brother said you’d help her.” She held out a piece of paper.

“What’s this?”

“Devon’s list. He said he knows how she’s doing it and that you’ll both make her stop before anyone else gets hurt. He said he’ll meet you there. Please, don’t let anything else happen, to Devon or anyone else.”

Dean took the list. “That little sword she wears around her neck, where did she get it from?”

“She found it right after her dad killed himself. It was in with some junk donated to the church and we were sorting through the boxes. I should have said something about her taking it, but it didn’t seem valuable and it was the first time I saw her smile in weeks.”

“When did she come up with this list?” Dean asked. He was getting a queasy feeling.

“A few days later. After she started wearing that necklace she started having dreams. She said that’s how she knew what she had to do.”

“We need that necklace.”

“She never takes it off.”

“Here’s my number, dean pulled a card with his and Sam’s phone numbers on them. And my brother’s. If she shows up and still has the necklace, call one of us. Do not try to do anything yourself.”

Tears welled up in the girl’s eyes. “Will Devon be okay?”

“That’s always the plan.” Dean scanned the list. There was one word written in Sam’s handwriting. “Is there a McNash dairy farm?”

“No, but there is a petting zoo with that name.”

“They got cows, or goats, or something that makes milk?” Dean asked.

She nodded. “Take Coal Road, it dead ends at the zoo.”

Dean thanked her and ran to the Impala, swearing under his breath, “Damnit, Sammy.”

As Dean drove he tried Sam’s number, and twice it went straight to voice mail. When he drove through the gate, shattering it, of McNash Petting Zoo Dean knew something was wrong, seriously wrong.

There was no one in the office, or house that was on the property and no sign of Sam. He ran to the barn, pulling the door open with one hand and his gun out with the other. The first thing that hit him was the smell of blood. The second odor took him a second to work out—milk.

“Sam. Sammy!”

He heard the distinct sound of rope swinging with a heavy weight attached to it. Panic and chills ran through Dean at the thought the heavy weight might be his brother’s. Rounding the corner into a wide stall Dean gulped down a gasp when he nearly collided with a man swinging from a rope.

A dead man.

A dead, bald man.

A dead, bald, short, fat man.

“Sam!”

There were eight milk buckets scattered around. Eight llamas were in the paddock outside the stall. A mural was painted on the wall of Swedish girls in braids milking cows. A moan came from a brown lump in the corner that was covered with hay. One of the llamas was chewing on it.

Dean darted forward, arms out as he dodged the llama. “Shoo…scat…get the hell out of the way!” He shoved on the llama’s side. The animal gave him a dirty look but stepped to the side.

Reaching down, Dean grabbed the moaning lump of brown by the arms and hauled his brother up.

“Ooh, oww, shit.” Sam rubbed at the back of his head. “I was too late.”

“You got taken out by a little girl?”

Sam gave him a snotty look and shook his head then winced. “No, I got taken out by the pissed off spirit she’s carting around.”

“You’re just lucky Depressed Girl’s – err, Devon’s friend found me. She gave me a list of the people she dreamed about harming after she started wearing that necklace.”

“I’m just glad you saw my note I scribbled,” Sam said, rubbing his head. “We need to stop her before she gets to the nine ladies dancing.”

“Yeah, that won’t be pretty,” Dean mused, trying to imagine how that one was going to take place.

Helping his brother out of the petting zoo, they got into the Impala and drove off.

“By any chance, did you catch where Devon was heading to from here?” Dean asked.

Sam thought about it, trying to remember anything before he was knocked out. “The girl, Devon, she looked… possessed. After she… actually, Father Gregory, killed that guy, she kept mumbling something about dancing –”

“Yeah, the next line of the verse,” Dean added.

Sam continued, “But what that could possibly be, is anyone’s guess.”

“Or maybe not!” Dean exclaimed, excitement in his voice. Sam looked to where his brother was pointing. Up ahead was a small advertisement for The Sugar Shack, a little strip club that was located a few miles out of down on the interstate. The picture depicted nine busty ladies in various states of undress.

It was a testament to Dean’s skills as a driver that he could look at a sign of half naked women and not plow the car into a nearby tree.

“But Dean, how could a teen girl walk that far in this weather?”

Dean didn’t have an answer, but up ahead, there was a man walking toward them, bundled up but still apparently freezing.

He flagged them down.

“Excuse me,” the man said, slight agitation in his voice as Dean rolled down the driver side window, “have you seen a teenage girl pass through here by any chance? She… she just stole my car!”


	8. Chapter 8

_“On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me, nine ladies dancing…”_  
\---

The Sugar Shack, despite the type of business it was, had been turned into a winter wonderland under the name of “Santa’s Workshop.”

The Winchesters got out of the Impala, spotting the teenage girl up ahead, getting out of the stolen car. Dean’s eyes however, kept moving over to the entrance, where the sounds of laughter and smells of beer and alcohol met his ears and nose. Dean smiled widely.

“Concentrate, Dean,” Sam warned, sensing this was not going to be the cut and dry mission he hoped. 

“I am concentrating, Sammy,” he said, though only half attentively. 

The girl was quick. She made a mad dash for the back of the building, Sam and Dean following suit. There were no visible security officers guarding the back, and the three intruders made it undetected into building.

It was dimly lit inside, but once their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they found the girl. She had ducked into one of the private rooms, passed where paying clients were getting lap dances. 

Dean wished he was one of those clients, and not chasing a girl possessed by a pissed off spirit. His life was so not normal. It took all his strength and effort to not watch the girls on stage as they removed their bras.

Following Devon into a vacant room, she stopped and turned and faced the Winchesters. Raising a hand, the door shut and locked behind them.

“I know you’re following me!” she shouted.

“Yeah, and then you’ll know why we can’t stop,” Dean said.

Unconsciously, she rubbed the tiny athame between her fingers.

“Just hand over the athame and this will all be over,” Sam said in a placating voice.

Devon looked at Sam, an unreadable look on her face.

At that moment, Dean’s phone began to ring. Raising a hand, he picked up his phone and answered it, his eyes never leaving Devon’s face.

A frantic girl was on the other end. “Dean!” she cried. “You’ve got to help! I don’t know what’s going on!”

It was Devon’s friend.

“What’s going on?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know! There’s… there’s all these people and they’re standing on the cliff ready to jump!”

“How many are there?”

He could hear the girl counting.

“T-ten!”

Dean shot a look over at Sam. “After the nine ladies dancing, what came next?”

“Uh, ten lords a leaping?”

Shit, Dean thought.

“Alright, listen. Just go home and we’ll try and fix this. Don’t worry.” Dean hoped he sounded more convincing than he was.

Slipping the phone back in his pocket, he tried again to get that necklace.

“Look, I know that necklace seemed like a blessing, but it’s not, it’s a curse,” Dean began.

Devon watched him, tears starting to gather in the corners of her eyes. “You don’t understand!”

“Yeah I do. You were in a really bad spot, you’re dad just died. You were angry with everything, the world itself.”

“You don’t know what that was like!” she shouted. A wave of energy burst through the room with enough force to push the brothers back a few steps.

“Yeah, I do know what that’s like! My own dad – our dad – died earlier this year, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to save him.”

Tears started falling down her face. “But was your mother drinking and taking pills all the time?”

“No, because our mother died when my brother was four and I was six months old.”

“It’s. Not. Fair!” she stomped her foot, a blast of energy sending them sailing back into the wall.

Sam’s head made contact with the wall, as Dean’s back took the brunt.


	9. Chapter 9

_"On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me ten lords a leaping…"_  
\---

 

When Dean opened his eyes he was staring at dingy carpeting. The sound of distant sirens was ringing in his ears. He groaned and pushed off the floor, shaking his head to clear his scrambled thoughts. Feet pounding along the hall outside the vacant room shook the last cobwebs from Dean’s mind.

Standing and straightening slowly he realized the room was more vacant than it should have been.

He turned in a circle. “Sam?”

Devon was gone. Sam was gone and by the streak of blood on the floor Dean knew not under his own steam. How the hell Devon who was approximately half his little brother’s size was able to move him, Dean had no idea.

He staggered to the door, and cracked it open, leaning in to catch a breath. Not seeing anyone right outside he stiffened his spine, shoved off the door frame and headed into the hall.

Devon’s attack had attracted attention. People were scrambling out of rooms and heading to the exit. No one paid attention to him, even the few that brushed by, jostling his as they did so. 

Dean blended in with the others leaving as the police and a firemen streamed into the building. From the snatches of conversation between them, Dean realized they weren’t even sure what sort of emergency they were responding to. Now was not the time for Dean to explain it to them.

Almost on cue as he hit the outside his phone rang. He barely glanced at the caller I.D. grinding his teeth and swearing softly. Taking a deep breath, pull yourself together, Winchester, Dean answered. “Hel—”

“They’re all dead,” Devon’s friend literally screeched into Dean’s ear.   
“Calm—”

“They just jumped! All of them. None of them were on her list and they’re dead,” the girl started to sob. Dean felt utterly helpless.

“Where are you? I’ll come get you,” Dean made sure to keep his voice calm, despite the utter panic growing in his chest.

“I can see my house.”

“Okay, you listen to me. Go inside. Do not let Devon in, no matter what she says or does. Do you know where she is, where she would go?”

“I’m not sure,” the girl cried.

“Think. There has to be somewhere. Maybe someplace special to her and her dad?”

“Um, I…oh wait there was a small carnival, they went every Sunday. It closed, but—”

“Where?” Dean was feeling frantic at this point.

“There is a Y, it has a big field behind it.”

“I saw it,” Dean said.

“Follow the road behind the Y,” the girl said. She sniffed and hiccupped. “Can you…will Devon be…”

“That’s the plan.” Dean snapped his phone shut and ran toward the Impala.


	10. Chapter 10

_"On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me, eleven pipers piping…"_  
\---

Dean had just pulled out onto the highway when his phone went off. He glanced at it, then pulled to the side of the road, hitting the breaks at the same time. “Sammy,”

He heard a groan that he immediately recognized as coming from Sam. Then Sam’s voice, “Dean…I…” Sam hissed in a breath and Dean could see the wince that went with it. “Head hurts>”

His brother’s voice was drowned out by the blare of bagpipes.

There was scratching and scuffling and Devon’s voice screamed through the phone. “Now you’re going to know how I felt!”

The line went dead.

A carnival. Great. Dean had a vision of midgets dressed like clowns blasting Sam with bagpipe music, and not very well played to boot. Groaning, Dean pressed his foot harder against the gas pedal. 

The Impala groaned under the stress, but roared down the road. Dean sighed, as trees and scenery went whizzing by. It seemed the whole world needed a good long therapy session….

-0-

The carnival showed some serious signs of neglect. Peeling paint and broken windows did nothing to enhance the décor. Dean smirked a bit, but only for a second. The place seemed like something straight out of a cheesy horror flick, the cliché not lost on him.

Pulling out his gun, he checked the ammo, grabbed whatever supplies he thought he would need, and proceeded to head into the abandoned carnival.

“Sam?” he called. Nothing. His only response was a cold breeze. The place was freaking huge, and he worried he wouldn’t find Sam in time.

Until he heard the faint sounds of music in the distance. Bagpipes. His heart started pounding loudly in his chest as he rushed in the direction the music sounded like it was coming.

The horrid sound of out of tune bagpipes grew louder as Dean drew nearer a building that, in is heyday, once proudly showcased live stage shows.

The door hung haphazardly on the frame as Dean pushed through, the squealing noise slicing through him.

“Sam?” he called again through the cacophony of bagpipes.

If Sam couldn’t hear him, it was no wonder. He needed to find the source of the music and kill it. For his own sanity at least.

The music was coming from overhead, through speakers that didn’t look as though they should still be working. Dean found a side door, leading to the sound room. The music was coming from eleven toy pipers playing next to a long microphone that the length of was wrapped around a security guard’s neck. One by one, he turned them off, the ringing still in his ears.

“Someone needs anger management,” Dean commented to himself.

He pushed on, hoping to find Sam.

“Sam!” he called again. “Damn it, where are you?”

Quickly loosing hope, he hears something off in the distance.

“Sam!”

He could hear something large and heavy moving in the distance. It was faint, but it filled him with hope. Hurriedly he followed the sound, to outside the building where around the back he saw a bloody handprint and…

“Sam!” Dean yelled.

In response, a faint, “D-Dean!” carried over to the elder Winchester.

It sounded like it came from further behind the theater; hurriedly, he rushed over in the direction of the sound, to where twelve huge decrepit-looking drums sat. His heart quickly sinking as realization set in.

Kneeling down, he tried to pry open one of the drums, when the sounds of footsteps from behind made him spin around on his knees, just in time to see the form of a teenage girl standing behind him, looking menacing and larger than her age would’ve suggested.


	11. Chapter 11

_"On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me twelve drummers drumming…"_  
\---

Sitting around her neck was the athame. Behind him, his brother was stirring inside one of the drums.

He knew the twelfth day of Christmas had something to do with drummers or drumming, but whatever it was and how it would play out, he didn’t want him or his brother to find out.

“Look,” Dean said, trying to reach the girl trapped inside the angry spirit, “I know life has dealt you a bad hand, but this has got to stop! There are other ways… healthier ways… to deal with it!”

Devon stared at him, unblinking. It was rather creepy.

Dean knew he had to take action, but short of seriously injuring the girl, left him with little options. 

Rising up further, almost into a squatting position, Dean quickly swung his leg around, knocking Devon to the ground. The wind was knocked out of her body, and in the split second it took her to react, Dean pinned her down, trying to finagle the athame away from her. He got the chain loose when he heard a faint “D-Dean! I can’t get out!” again.

Instinctively he looked up, but it was all the time Devon needed, thrusting her fist up, nailing Dean in the chin, the athame sailing somewhere behind them.

“Damn it!” Dean yelled, scrambling past the teenage girl.

The pounding from the drums intensified until Dean could feel it throughout his chest as well hear is banging in his ear canals. Sam’s pleas were getting weaker, more desperate. Dean considered blowing his own brains out just for some quiet. That certainly wouldn’t help anyone, especially his brother.

Sam was in one of the drums, they were large kettle things on metal tripod legs, sticks hanging in the air above them, pounding the drum heads manically. The drums were bouncing around from the impact force of the sticks. As the drums bounced they moved and clanged into one another. The athame had landed on the floor among the drums.

Dean realized that one drum wasn’t moving and the sound was more muffled than with the others. The athame was right next to it. Dean sprinted at the drum. Devon sprinted at the same spot, but he knew it wasn’t the drum—or its contents—she was after. 

Devon dove for the atheme. Dean couldn’t reach it and Sam, so he sidestepped and rammed his shoulder into Devon’s side sending her staggering away. She crashed to the floor, spewing more swear words than even Dean knew.

“Nice vocabulary,” Dean mumbled and threw himself at the drum. He bounced his fist against the skin, “Sam, Sammy? Hit twice if that’s—” He hadn’t even finished his sentence when pounding came from inside the drum. Dean fished his pocket knife from his back pocket. “Hang on, Sammy, just one…” he sliced the top of the drum. “…more minute.” He pried the skin and away from the base of the drum. 

Sam was cruelly stuffed into a space a third of the size he should have been, his legs were bent so his knees were on either side of his chin. His chest heaved, and he stifled a cough. “Hard to breathe,” he could barely wheeze the words out.

Dean quickly folded and re-pocketed his knife. He reached in and grabbed Sam by both arms and jerked him out of the drum. 

The cacophony of noise doubled, making the windows rattle and sparks ignited between the metal feet and concrete floor.

Sam’s feet hit the floor, and he stood for about a second for lurching forward and crumpling downward and against Dean. Dean was caught off guard and his brother’s unexpected weight crashing into him, sent them both tumbling to the floor.

Dean moved Sam to the side and clamored to his feet. He reached down and took hold of his brother’s arms again, “Sammy, we gotta—”

“I can’t feel,” Sam whispered, pushing his hands over his ears. “Legs. It hurts, Dean.”

Devon was fumbling around the floor on her knees, hands groping for the atheme.

“Crap.” Dean could get Sam out or Devon, the simple fact was carrying them both was a little impossible. “I can’t…your arms work?”

Devon stood and screamed, “No!”. She had the atheme’s chain in her fist and was holding it above her head, charging them.

Sam looked up, his breath hitched and he nodded, extending and flexing one arm slowly.

“That’ll work.” Dean lunged forward at Devon and swung his fist. He connected solidly with her jaw, sending her wheeling away from him. She was out cold.

Dean took the atheme and threw it to the ground, smashing it with his heel. He expected silence, but the drumming ramped up another few decibles. Spreading his arms wide he looked down at Sam.

“That breaks his hold on her,” Sam panted.

“But doesn’t get rid of the ghost, not until the song ends,” Dean put the rest of it together. “You’re the last victim. If you don’t die, he will.”

Scooping up Devon, Dean carried her to Sam. “Hold onto her.”

Sam wrapped his arms around Devon and nodded. Dean grabbed Sam under the arms from behind and lifted to his feet, then slung one around his brother’s middle, taking most of Sam’s weight. Prepared this time he took a few steps sideways before propelling them at the exit.

The drumming was deafening even from the outside. As they slipped out the door Dean was the sparks grown to small flames, lapping at the wooden drum bases. He got Sam and Devon far enough away from the building, and left them on the ground.

Running to the Impala, Dean had kerosene, salt and a flare gun out of the trunk in no time. He ran back, seeing how Devon was beginning to wake up. Sam was bending his knees and stretching his legs, rubbing his thighs with his hands. 

Dean threw the salt inside the room, then emptied the kerosene container over the threshold. He backed up a few steps and took aim with the flare gun and fired. There was a whoosh of hot air when the room ignited in flames.

“What the hell! Let go of me you pervert,” Devon screeched. 

Dean turned around in time to see her slap Sam’s face hard enough Dean felt the sting. Devon was up and moving away from them.

“Don’t either of you come near me. How did I get here. You drugged me!”

“N-no we—” Sam shook his head and tried standing. 

“Stay away from me,” She screamed and kicked Sam hard in the shin. Then turned and ran.

Flames shot from the windows and door of the building. “The damn drums finally stopped,” Dean grumbled and pulled Sam up and against him once more.

Sam watched Devon’s back retreat and shook his head. “You’re welcome.” He looked up at Dean. The sounds of sirens made them both look to their right, the same direction Devon ran to. “Dean, we should…”

“Uh huh.” Dean steered them to the Impala and opened the door for Sam. Once they were both safely inside Dean eased the car into gear, and kept the lights off until they were clear of the old carnival. They hadn’t gone more than a few hundred yards when Devon ran out to the road, waving her arms at an approaching police car.

“She should be okay,” Sam said, and turned far enough to look out the back window. 

“How about you?” Dean asked.

Sam nodded and smiled. “I hate Christmas carols. And drums.”

Dean burst out laughing. “See I told you!”

They made a quick stop at their motel. Sam could still barely walk, and despite Dean’s protests hobbled after him into their room. They watched the news, heard about the fire but no mention of Devon. Once they were on the road, Sam called Devon’s friend and got the report she was normal, scared and confused but normal.

As the road darkened from lack of city lights Sam leaned back against the seat and sighed. “We should lay low when Easter gets close.”

Dean glanced to the side and snickered. “What’s the matter worried about the Easter Bunny?”

“Oh hell yeah.” Dean laughed and reached for the radio. Sam’s fingers closed around his wrist. “How about a tape instead of the radio?”

“Good thinking. No one ever died from Metallica.”

 

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me for not having finished posting this. I could've sworn I had all the chapters up... Anyway... nothing like Christmas in July, lol.


End file.
